Effie watched in heartbreak as hostess Elfrida scraped discarded crusts and crushed pastries from a clearing tray onto her plate

By eight o’clock that evening, the North Ridge estate had transformed from a sunlit playground of the wealthy into a darkened fortress of paranoia.

Because the utility accounts were tied to the frozen trust credit lines, the main power grid to the mansion had been shut down by the county utility company. The sweeping terrace where Effie had been humiliated was now plunged into deep gloom, lit only by the flickering glow of hurricane lanterns and emergency battery lamps set along the perimeter.

Inside the grand library, Elfrida sat on a sofa, a fresh bag of crushed ice pressed against the side of her face. Her cheek was swollen into an ugly purple knot, and her designer dress had been replaced by a heavy silk housecoat.

Across from her stood Uncle Bartholomew, pouring himself a tumbler of cheap scotch in the dim light.

"He went to Cross," Bartholomew muttered, his hands trembling as the amber liquid sloshed over the rim. "Cross called my secure burner ten minutes ago. He resigned, Elfrida. The custody petition is dead."

Elfrida leaped up from the sofa, sending the ice pack crashing to the floor. "He what?! Cross had fifty thousand in upfront cash! He can't just back out!"

"Lysander has his offshore accounts," Bartholomew said, his voice cracking with old age and terror. "He has the wire logs! The man isn't human, Elfrida. He anticipates every move before the board can even assemble! We shouldn't have pushed the child—"

"The child is the only leverage we had left!" Elfrida screamed, her face contorting with rage. "Without Clara’s trust, we are bankrupt! Look at this house! The mortgages are thirty days past due! The staff walked out at six o’clock because their direct deposits bounced! Do you want to end up in a municipal home in Queens, Uncle?"

Before Bartholomew could answer, the heavy front double doors of the mansion creaked open down the long marble hallway.

Footsteps echoed through the empty corridors—heavy, measured, and unhurried.

Elfrida froze, her breath hitching in her throat. She snatched an antique brass letter opener from the mahogany desk, holding it in front of her with white knuckles. "Who’s there?!"

A tall figure stepped into the doorway of the library.

Marcus Vance—Julian's estranged younger brother and the disgraced corporate lawyer who had orchestrated the legal challenge—stumbled into the room. His necktie was loose, his jacket missing, and his face was slick with cold sweat.

"It’s over," Marcus whispered, leaning heavily against the doorframe. "It’s completely over."

Elfrida rushed toward him. "Marcus! What happened? Where are Sterling’s men?"

"Sterling isn't coming," Marcus laughed hysterically, his voice breaking. "Lysander didn't just freeze the trust accounts, you idiot. Two hours ago, his freight syndicate seized three of Sterling’s container vessels in Newark harbor for unpaid maritime docking fees. The port authority locked the cargo. Sterling is currently losing four million dollars an hour. He told me to tell you that you're on your own."

Bartholomew sank into an armchair, his glass slipping from his fingers and shattering against the hardwood floor. "God help us..."

"Listen to me!" Elfrida grabbed Marcus by the collar, shaking him with desperate fury. "There must be something else! Clara left personal journals in the Zurich vault! You told me there were adoption records! You told me we could prove the girl wasn't even Lysander’s blood!"

"Do you really think that matters to him?" Marcus mocked, pulling her hands off his lapel. "Do you think a man like Lysander Farrow cares about biological paperwork? He raised that girl. He holds her when she cries. If you question her legitimacy to his face, he won't take your money, Elfrida. He will take your life."